


In which Fargo, North Dakota is not as close as you’d think

by House_of_Ares, vampirekilmer



Series: Black Snake Moan [2]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Altered Mental States, Battle Trance, Berserker Episode, Blackout Rage, Explicit Language, Human Trafficking, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Paranoid Delusions, Psychosis, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirekilmer/pseuds/vampirekilmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When you go on an op, sometimes you end up not being alone out there after all. Sometimes the answer is in your own head."</p>
<p>Coulson's got issues; Barton is pretty good at dealing with them. Sometimes it isn't easy.</p>
<p><i>"After seven years of silence, </i>it<i> catches up with him on the US-Canadian border, and Barton gets caught in the crossfire."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Fargo, North Dakota is not as close as you’d think

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [О том, что Фарго, город в Северной Дакоте, совсем не так близко, как кажется](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138402) by [Silmary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silmary/pseuds/Silmary)



_**October 21, 2008  
Rolla, North Dakota**_  
  
In what passes for a living room Barton has the television turned up and is giving running commentary on a movie. Coulson sighs and tugs at his tie, pulling out the double windsor knot and letting it hang around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone to relieve some of the constriction around his neck. His laptop is open in front of him and the standard SHIELD operations report pulled up, only half of it completed.  
  
He’s still wound up and tense from head to toe after their scuffle taking down a HYDRA cell located just outside of the town that afternoon. The site had been cleared less than twenty-four hours earlier, just the last few guards scrubbing the place clean; he and Barton had failed to intercept HYDRA’s newest division - cross-border human trafficking to help subsidize their weapons research and development.   
  
Coulson rubs at the knotted muscles in his neck, frustration pouring off him in waves; they’d failed and that never sat well with him. Add in the factor of innocent children being kidnapped and sold into slavery, children that he couldn’t save at this point, and underneath the Dolce his skin was crawling.  
  
"No. Run. RUN. You stupid bitch, not the wind- .... _s_ _he’s behind you_. Jesus. Stop with the unguents. _Run_ , you bitch, get out of the shower curtain!”  
  
There’s been a tension between the two of them the last six months, ever since the op in the Yukon. He’d taken taken a shot to the gut, and Barton had spent the next four hours holding pressure on the wound, wrapped around Coulson to stave off shock and hypothermia while they waited for extraction. Since then, Barton has been more sarcastic and abrasive than ever.  
  
For six years they’ve been working together; the first two off and on while Barton learned the ropes and was paired with different handlers for missions. The last three years they‘ve worked with each other exclusively, and Fury has been giving them more and more challenging missions. Up until the last six months, their dynamic has been like a well-oiled machine.  
  
Coulson braces his elbows on the small dining room table and rubs at his eyes. There’s that tightness across his shoulders and a brightness to the kitchen light that doesn’t bode well. He really needs to go a few rounds with a heavy bag and maybe some mat work, but none of that is available.  
  
He can't take it anymore, and he saves the document, slaps the laptop closed and shoves his chair back.  
A shower might help – quiet, just the sound of hot water; it's better than listening to Barton and the TV.  
He half-strips in the bedroom, drapes trousers and jacket and tie on the bed, then ditches the rest in the bathroom and leaves it in a pile on the warped counter by the sink.  
The water's hot almost immediately, the one plus in this place.  
He lets it pound on his back, tips his head to let it massage his scalp, and grabs the soap; washing his dick is enough that maybe jacking off wouldn't be such a bad idea, so he wraps a fist around it and goes faster. Anything to relax, at this point; any port in a storm.  
  


\--------------------

  
Clint’s got to piss like a racehorse, and he considers going outside for just a second before he remembers how cold it is out there. No way he's going to whip his dick out in that weather. Coulson's just showering; he can get in there and piss, they've done it before. Especially since the shower curtain is thick white plastic.  
  
There's a commercial, and he gets up and pads to the bathroom. The door's unlocked, and he opens it quietly. Maybe he can startle the shit out of Coulson, which might be good for a laugh. After today, he could use one. He gets about three steps through the steam toward the toilet, and stops in his tracks.

  
There's a rhythmic slapping that leaves no doubt about just which part Coulson is cleaning, and Clint hesitates; he should go. Then again, his back teeth are floating. Over the sound of the shower there's a growled moan, and he backs out of the bathroom, half-hard. Taking a piss can wait.  
  


\--------------------

  
Coulson comes with a low moan, some of the tension draining out of him and washing down with the water, and when it's over he shuts the water off, towels off and pulls his old Ranger Bat sweatpants and a PT shirt out of his bag. It's better, makes him feel a little calmer, and he goes back out to work on the report.  
  
Barton makes a break for the bathroom as he walks into the living room, but leaves the TV cranked. As soon as he's back on the couch, his inane drivel is going again.  
  
“The  hand?  Yeah, that’s a great place to shoot someone.  Yeah, no shit it’s a defensive wound!”  
  
"Barton, please..." he asks, just loud enough to be heard over the ruckus. Barton doesn’t even hear him.   
  
Thirty seconds and already the tension is back in full force, pressure at the base of his skull like a jackhammer.  He flexes his hand and rolls his neck before going back to the laptop in front of him, the initial report on the HYDRA cell due in the morning.  
  
“Oh, Jesus.  She’s puking.  ...Eat?   _ Again?_  You were gonna throw up!”  
  
The archer is perched on the arm of the sofa, one ankle tucked under the opposite knee, the Cheetos spilling into the corner behind the cushion, and Fargo appears to be the absolute center of his world at the moment.   
  
" _Dealer!_  Fuck me, these people are stupid!”

  _….flex, bend, unwind....._

 

…......It’s been years, not since his early days as a junior agent at SHIELD; he thought  it was gone.....  
  
Coulson shudders hard and rests his head in his hand, starts counting out the primes aloud to cover the sound of cicadas, reminds himself that Barton is just dealing with the stress of failing a mission in his own way and that losing control will not benefit anyone now.  
  
“Hey. Coulson!  How do you turn on captions?  I can’t tell what they’re saying half the time.”  
  
The sound is louder now, a dull roar in the back of his mind, and he shudders against the feeling skittering under his skin. Pushing back from the table, ignoring the question, he walks into the bedroom and pushes the door half closed.  The thick pile carpeting has a musky smell that’s a little rancid in his nose, but doesn’t stop him from dropping and cranking out pushups as fast and hard as he can physically can manage.  
  


_ ….the smell of blood, sweat, urine, feces is embedded in the concrete walls and floor.....  
…a branding iron on a countertop, beside it a teddy bear...  
….a radio plays in the background....some upbeat pop song....  
…..maybe they were dancing...bells on their ankles and a steady drum beat... _

  
At a hundred and ten, he rolls to his back and starts doing sit-ups without counting, just going halfway up until he hits muscle failure and his back hits the floor hard.   
  
“Hey, you gotta come watch this,” Clint says.  “This is like, a documentary about this area, I swear to God. They’re wearing fur hats, the stupid accent - I think this may be actually true. Fargo’s pretty close to here, right?”  He pauses.  “Coulson?”   
  
There’s no chin-up bar in the temporary apartment, but the molding on the top of the bathroom doorway is thick and secure; Coulson starts pull-ups and stops when his knuckles are white, hands cramped into the half-open position.   
  


_ ….the remaining five HYDRA agents taunt them, thinking they have the upper hand...  
...five rounds, .45 standard-issue Sig....  
....too good, too good for the dogs...  
...shaking hands as he holsters the gun.... _

“Do we have any other booze than that shit you brought?  I should’ve bought vodka. It’s like, cold as fucking Russia out there, Natasha would love it.  You should go get some, I need vodka to deal with this movie.”

_...they deserved so much more...  
….fingers twitch, clench, flex...  
….KA-BAR strapped to his ankle...   
….visions of a tree that he doesn’t remember...  
….quiet, so quiet in the early desert morning....just need the quiet... _

 

....eyes blurry and he grabs a sock off the floor.....   
....something purple, a purple silk tie on the chest of drawers....   
....a square knot in the center tied with unseeing hands as he storms into the living room...  
....Barton's chin hanging open and shoves the sock into his gaping mouth....  
…quickly looping the tie over his head and knotting it just tight enough to pinch....  
  
“Barton,  shut the fuck up.”  
  
….feet shoved into combat boots, jerk a jacket on...  
….out the door at a dead run without a single weapon save his bare hands, God help anyone who gets in his way.....  
….down two blocks to the high school running track, steady loops in the dark....  
….no tv....no people....just the night....  
  
An hour later and he’s numb.   
Quiet.  
  


\----------

  
Clint wants to go to the range, throw some arrows - but there’s no range, just this shitty little town in the middle of Bumfuck, North Dakota.  He didn’t get to shoot a damn thing, since the last five guards were standing there in suicide formation when Coulson was in the other room.  All he could do is stay silent behind Coulson after that, watching their six with an arrow nocked.  The place had been creepy as shit, obviously little kids, and Coulson was so agitated Clint didn’t say a thing until they were back in the car.   
  
The best he can do is distract himself with a stupid movie. Coulson’s left his paperwork dumped across the kitchen table and headed to bed, so he cranks up the volume a little bit, damn subtitles still not working.  
  
He doesn't even  notice Coulson until he's  right there, and he's just about to say something about  _hey, you found that tie I bought for you_ , when his mouth is full of something fuzzy and he tries to back up, but the sofa arm is too small and the angle is wrong, and then the tie's knotted around the back of his neck and he tries to push the thing out of his mouth just as Coulson puts on his jacket and slams the door behind himself.  
  
Damn Coulson, he got the fat part of the tie in front, and Clint reaches back to untie the damn thing - he could've just  asked and Clint would've been quieter - and this is a  dirty sock. He can taste sweat on it and maybe dirt from the warehouse. That's  nasty.  He reaches up to yank it out of his mouth, then stops.  
  
Yeah, it's gross, but Coulson doesn't taste too bad, and he flushes. The sweat on it reminds of Phil when they were up by Destruction Bay in the Yukon, and Clint was petrified that Coulson wasn't going to make it, that the chopper wouldn't make it in time or his arms would give out and the blood would start again.    
He didn't remember Coulson smelling of anything but blood and snow until the next time he saw him in his own clothes instead of a hospital gown.  Warm, a little musky, that sort of woody cologne he has, fresh sweat - it all came back.  
  
He draws in a breath over the fabric.  
  
Fuck it, Coulson's off running or something outside.  
  
He drops his hands and stares at the screen and keeps tonguing the sock a little, partly to keep from gagging on it and partly because okay, it's gross, but it's also kind of kinky.  
  
When it gets too soaked in spit and his mouth is dry, he takes it out, tucks it into the laundry pocket of his bag.  He’ll do laundry sometime, throw it in there so Coulson doesn’t see how sodden it is.  He tosses the tie onto the arm of the sofa - it’s kind of insulting that Coulson doesn’t like it, but what the hell does he expect?  
  
He should've known better - Coulson's got like, a million ties, and they're all Italian silk or some shit, and subdued.  This one is silk, and he knows it's horrible but it was the  perfect shade of purple, like it was  calling for him.  But he only wears ties under duress, and it was Coulson’s birthday.  
  
An hour later Coulson comes back in, looking wrung out.  
  
“You okay, sir?” he asks, still trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Coulson doesn’t really answer, just nods his head yes without making eye contact and pulls off his boots by the door.  
  
“Gonna shower again, need in there?” Coulson asks, draping the coat over the end of the sofa.  
  
"Oh. No, go ahead. They're uh, trying to get the ransom." He gestures vaguely at the screen. "This isn't a bad movie."  
  
Coulson doesn’t reply or even look up at the TV, just walks through to the bathroom.  
  


\--------------------

  
There’s still hot water, and after cleaning up Coulson stands there with his hands braced against the wall, head bowed under the spigot. The trembling has finally left his hands, the urge and the instinct gone dormant again, and  fuck, when was the last time that happened?  
  
A hand reaches up to wipe the water from his eyes, pinches at the bridge of his nose while he tries to recall the last time he’d started to black out.   
  
The whole thing is bits and pieces in his mind. His second year with SHIELD and working on his fourth mission as a field agent. Back in 2004, a mission gone wrong led to his team to a homegrown terrorist cell set in Madrid, but the damage was already done, the bombs already in place and they couldn’t save a single person. He doesn’t remember much of anything from inside the dilapidated house terrorists been holed up in, but the few people from that team that still work at SHIELD refuse to work with him ever again.  
  
When the water finally cools down, he shuts off the faucets and dries off, pulls on a pair of boxers and brushes his teeth. Barton is still in the living room watching his movie, though much quieter now; Coulson dumps a couple of aspirin in his palm and swallows them with a palm full of tap water; he’ll be sore in the morning.  
  
Coulson leaves the light on for Barton, but pulls the door mostly closed.   
  
Between the hot shower, exercise, and, hell, Barton finally being quiet, Coulson is loose and relaxed.   
  
It's still quiet. Too quiet.  
  
Around the corner, Barton is still perched on the arm of the sofa and watching the movie intently, the tie still in his hands where he twists it around his wrists methodically, making some variation of a clove hitch only to loop it around his wrists like cuffs before slipping out of them and repeating the process.  
Coulson just quirks an eyebrow before laying down on his bed on top of the sheets, really not wanting to know what was going through Barton's head at that moment. Plausible deniability.  
  


\--------------------

  
He can't let the sock-thing distract him. He goes to the bedroom door and leans on the jamb. "So, did you want to be snuggled, or do I have to take the couch again like last night? And the night before that?"  


There's a sigh of very, very long suffering before Coulson opens his eyes and looks up at him. "You're actually asking me if you can share the bed with me? After what happened in Detroit?"  
  
“I wanted it all to myself,” he smirks, then goes a little more serious and shrugs.  “Go ahead, I know your back still bugs you. Anyway, make the orphan sleep on the couch, sure, don't let him have a bed all to himself, it's cool, he's used to it." He'll just go out to the shitty little sofa and maybe he can even wake up early and jerk off on that sock. 


End file.
